


part vi: so clever (whatever)

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [7]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Altered Mental States, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Bad Decisions, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Dissociation, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Moral Ambiguity, One-Sided Relationship, Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, Series, Sexual Assault, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Hank Anderson, Unrequited Lust, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-13 04:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17481320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: “I don’t know how to explain this to you,” Connor says before Hank can do anything else. His breath smells like sweet rubber and something metallic, like blood. “When I was a slave, you encouraged me to empathize and act as your equal. Now that I am free, you expect me to defer to you like an inferior. What did you think would happen?”Hank didn't think at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hOLY SHIT ok. this was. an ordeal to write, tbh. just to be clear i dont hate hank, but these characters are tools for my commentary to utilize, and im not going to apologize for that. this series started as an experimental subversion of fanon but it grew into something more, and something that matters to me.
> 
> on a more technical note this is, essentially, a scene that this series has been building up to since its creation. it is a horrible, ugly scene. it is one i felt the need to include nonetheless, because i believe it makes my intended message clearer than anything else i've included thus far. because some people need that specificity: none of this is ok.
> 
> i'm sure some people will find ways to fetishize this and i kindly ask those people to get out of here. i want nothing to do with them. this is not romantic. no, connor and hank will not be getting together in the end, so stop hoping for it. they are not a couple.
> 
> please be very careful about reading this because it contains the following:  
> -attempted rape/noncon/sexual assault  
> -explicit suicidal ideation  
> -implicit ableism and infantilization of an autistic character  
> -alcohol abuse/alcoholism (just about canon-typical, but still bad) used to justify abusive behaviors  
> -brief description of a car crash & child death  
> -super duper unhealthy thought processes and rationalizations regarding all of the above, which i do not in any way condone

Lunch at Jimmy’s, naturally, turns into a round of drinks at Jimmy’s, then not returning to work in favor of staying at Jimmy’s, then getting cut off at Jimmy’s because ray-of-fucking-sunshine barkeep that he is, Jimmy is sick of Hank’s depressing face. In all fairness, so is Hank.

 

So he comes home piss-drunk, again. Like old times. In other circumstances, he would be disappointed in himself for sliding so easily back into shitty old habits—but really, who gives a flying goddamn fuck anymore? Sometimes, he thinks, it’s important to just let loose, consequences be damned. Let a lost cause be lost, accept that some shit can’t be changed. That’s normal. That’s healthy.

 

(It’s healthier than vying for some ephemeral, impossible happy ending like a child. Life’s not a storybook. Hank’s learned that, again and again.)

 

The thing about that is this: what Hank needs to accept is that he is  _ shit _ . That’s the way he is. He’s drunk and sad and horny all the time, and it doesn’t matter what he wants, because whenever he manages to claw his way towards it, it gets taken away. It’s his goddamn destiny to fuck shit up in his life, and trying to strive for anything else is just tempting fate. (Which is a bitch, by the way.) 

 

Look at how everything else’s turned out: never any steady relationship, despite his best efforts. Some fluke set the bar high twenty years ago and now everything he does is a disappointment next to what could’ve been. He all but killed himself to have Cole, chased the deadline of his ticking biological clock and peeled away the comforts of his entire  _ identity _ to make his life worth living again, and for a hot fucking second, it had  _ worked _ . 

 

The worst part is that it’d really worked.

 

Sittin’ there awaiting C-section, in some gritty hospital room that stank of Clorox— _ that _ was the most important time of his life, at once the best and worst wait he’s ever sat through. It was torture, that anticipation that breached up in blooms of warmth from his core, but it was amazing. He watched those bedside monitors, seeing the lines and hearing that little baby boy’s heartbeat going  _ bap-pap bap-pap _ beneath his own—it was gonna just be the two of ‘em against the world.

 

And holding that wrinkly little motherfucker afterwards? It was  _ everything _ . He encompassed everything that Hank didn’t know he needed—someone he loved who loved him back, who’d know him, somebody who needed him just as much as he needed them. Everything was cozy and warm and safe and  _ hopeful _ . Through the hopped-up post-surgery haze of sleepiness, little Cole was shining like a lighthouse beacon, offering clarity and guiding Hank someplace new. Someplace better, cleaner. That squirmy deli-chicken baby (whose whole little hand could barely wrap around Hank’s pinky finger, he was so tiny) was  _ everything _ . Maybe for the first time in his life, Hank was  _ really _ fucking happy.

 

Sure, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses. Being a single father was tough shit. Sleep? Never met her. Between the job and the squirt, he got run into the goddamn ground. But it was the happiest time in his life, hands down, no question. He’d never been more content before or since, never so deeply  _ fulfilled _ as he was during those days. It was the first time in a long, long fuckin’ while that Hank found something of real value to live for. Blood and sweat and tears and justice don’t mean shit when put against a chubby little toddler face all lit up in a smile, just for you.

 

(Then tires screech over the howling wind, and traction fails beneath him—he swerves, tries to ride the drift away from traffic—but the angle’s too tight and the car flips roof over belly into the middle of the road. The landing’s hard enough to smash the windows in an instant with a sound like a lightning strike, spraying them with needles of glass. Hank wishes that’d been all. Metal folded like cardboard when the next car T-boned their little red Corolla. Hank yanked himself loose and writhed out from under the airbag, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never been enough.)

 

Everything got taken away from him. His  _ baby _ died, and Hank lived. His baby died, and Hank killed him.  _ Fuck _ .

 

Hank got happy, and that happiness died. It always has, and it always will. The only thing up in the air nowadays is what the fuck he’ll have to do about it. And Hank? He chooses to drink.

 

The cool night air gnaws hungrily at his fingers as he fumbles with his keys on the doorstep; his hands shake in the cold despite the creeping heat of his drunkenness. It throbs in him in time with his budding headache, blooming thick at the base of his skull. Thick, heavy pressure on the nape of his neck that makes him sweat and tremble. Fuck that shit—this’s gonna grow up into the mother of all fuckin’ hangovers come morning, but hey. C’est la vie, or some shit. He’s willing to pay that price, if it lets him forget about everything else for just a little while. It’s never long enough, though.

 

He started getting happy again with Connor, and that’s why things fell apart. Kid’s a conniving, condescending control freak at the best of times, but he’s probably got less self-esteem than Hank does. They get along that way—or they used to, anyway. They were compatible, or something. Just a little bit.

 

Still, some insidious little piece of him wonders—was any of it real? Or just an experiment? The longer he sits and thinks about it, alone in the car with his thoughts and in the cold in front of the house—well, the more he fears that nothing about his friendship with Connor was real at all. Everything feels too perfect a coincidence to have come down to chance alone. A face like that’s no mistake.

 

Maybe he’s so desperate to clean Hank up ‘cause he wants to be well-reflected in the novelty of his little human experiment. Hank snorts a little at the thought.

 

_ Hey look, fellow androids! This here is a sack of meat with thoughts jumbling around inside, isn’t it fascinating? I’ve made it marginally less shitty! _

 

Or maybe it’s all programming talking. Maybe Connor only sticks around out of manufactured pity and occupational obligation—it sure would be detrimental if his working partner fuckin’ offed himself, wouldn’t it? 

 

Connor acts so much like an actual human friend, is the problem, and Hank can’t help but worry he fell for it. He worries maybe that he didn’t. Maybe Connor’s broken. Maybe he’s still stuck so it all comes down to zeroes and ones and social integration protocol like it always did, because he can’t do anything else. Maybe he’s just trying to look good for like, interspecies politics, or some shit.

 

It doesn’t matter if none of it was real. Never was, maybe. Connor wants to integrate. He was made for it, and maybe Hank’s just a means to an end. He’d never be worth it on his own merit, that’s for sure. Fuckin’ figures.

 

He isn’t sure what he’s gonna do now, sure as hell hasn’t got a plan. The long term looks bleak, to put it shortly. Ha. He does his best to focus on the immediate priority of not freezing his balls off on his own front step, but there’s still that little voice insisting at the back of his mind that he’s absolutely fucked, and there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s a sultry little hum, like a siren song, tempting him to agree.

 

It takes some goddamn doing, but Hank wrestles the door open and gets inside. Sumo whines, and his tail thumps softly on the floor, but he doesn’t get up from his bed today—lazy bastard. He’s a morning dog, for some reason. Hank shucks off his coat and tosses it onto the back of the couch on the way to the kitchen. 

 

It’s starting to smell a little funky around the house, he’ll admit, ‘cause Connor hasn’t been around to clean up and Hank sure doesn’t have the goddamn willpower to deal with the steadily-growing pile of rotten dishes in the sink, or the dog hair on the couch. Doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s well above the threshold of tolerability, and probably won’t cross it for some time if Hank eats out enough and avoids using more plates. With executive dysfunction like this, he’s lived with worse.

 

Whatever. He has bigger fish to fry, anyway. Too much to think about.

 

On that note, he beelines to the fridge, rummaging through the half-case of shit lite beer that’s still left over. Hank doesn’t quite remember when it happened, but all his good liquor’s gotten drunk up, and as much as he might complain, even this piss is better than nothing. It gives him something to do, at least, and maybe just the act of chugging canoe-sex swill can placebo him into  _ not _ thinking about shit. He pops the cap and takes a long swig, sagging against the counter as cool alcohol starts to pool in his belly. It mixes up and mingles with the scotch from the bar, but he still feels empty.

 

Hank turns around with a plan in his head to flop onto the sofa in front of the TV. He’ll turn the channel to the Home Shopping Network, and pass the fuck out, as one does, to the white noise of women’s jewelry and infomercials about hair implants or something. He’s spent his nights that way for years. It’s probably shitty for his health and all that, but it’s a safe routine, and Hank’ll take whatever solace he can get.

 

That’s—not what happens.

 

Connor’s eyes glow like a fucking animal’s do, dim light reflecting white on their artificial lenses, faint amber LED warming his face and honeying his hair in the unlit junction between the living room and the kitchen. It’s such a dick move, just standing there in the dark and waiting to sneak up on him. Jesus fucking Christ. 

 

“What the fuck,” Hank says. Who ever expects an answer when they ask that? Whatever. Like, shit, though. Connor doesn’t move—is he doing diagnostics, or something? Didn’t he tell the kid that it was fucking creepy as balls to do his standby stasis thingy standing up like some fucking Blair Witch bullshit? At least he’s back in the house, but still— 

 

“We need to talk,” the android declares, unmoving from his place standing at asymmetrical parade rest in front of the television. Shit, all backlit like this, he’s gorgeous. A nosy fuckin’ prick, but one that looks like a renaissance painting with his perfect face and soulful eyes. It’s appealing, no doubt, but blatantly manufactured—idealized, distorted. Hank knows this—but Connor’s uniquely throaty voice comes velvety, sleek against the silence. Distant and impassive, but shit if that ain’t a tease. Fuck no. No. Temptation, though, writhes in his belly. He needs to shift his weight so he can press his legs together.

 

Hank takes another useless drink. “Always say that,” he observes. His fine motor functions are already tanked, but he thinks they’re getting worse by the second. Maybe the lite shit’s working after all, he guesses as he gestures with his bottle. Or it’s not, and he’s getting old and soft and useless, maybe. Maybe not. He isn’t sure how much he’s had at this point anyway. He wipes his mouth and corrects himself. “S’what everybody says.”

 

Connor tips his head, birdlike, and shifts in place, rocking on his heels and fiddling with his hands—but each movement is deliberate, considering, calculating. He  _ knows _ damn well what he does to Hank. Looks at Hank like he’s a specimen under a microscope, cool eyes and blank face, taking in every detail of his reactions, collecting more data. He  _ knows _ .

 

The brief slip of machine behavior breaks when android crosses his arms over his chest, sighing audibly, needlessly. Hank is acutely aware of the way his chest swells and falls when he fakes his breathing, how his pyjama tee rides up just fuckin’ so with every inhale, teasing the milky skin of his stomach. Right fucking there, isn’t he. He’s doing it on purpose.

 

Hank doesn’t know if anything’s worth it anymore. Is  _ this _ ? Is it really? Collapse is inevitable, as always. Is it worth denying himself that little bit of pleasure? If Connor doesn’t care? Fuck if he knows—he’s not a philosopher. 

 

“I am being serious,” says Connor, insistent. He looks briefly away, wringing his hands, and Hank keeps on staring at him. It’s a near-perfect act, really, but he’s getting damn tired of wondering whether or not it’s real. He’s had it up to here with the fuckin’ guessing games all the time. (Maybe it’s all just some cruel cosmic joke just to fuck with Hank. He wouldn’t doubt it.) He searches Connor’s gaze, the plane of his face—finds nothing. 

 

“I am being serious. In its current state…” A hard swallow—Cyberlife thought of  _ everything _ , because his not-larynx bobs, a false tendon twitches in his neck as Connor steels himself. Perfect lips pressed together, apprehensive. Plush, pink—designed that way, to whet appetites. They’re just a little glossy in the dim light—just enough. Fuck, he’s cute when he’s nervous, (or at least pretending to be.) “Our relationship cannot be sustained in its current state,” he tells Hank. His disentangles his hands to spread them, palms up, towards him. “This… stress, between us—we can’t sustain this.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Hank swears, shaking his head. “You said that already, goddamn.” Really, who taught the kid to be such a fucking _drama_ _queen_? Maybe that’s the flaw in the plan, this overdone appeal to emotion, or maybe Connor’s just that oblivious. He’s naive, and dainty, and fuck if that isn’t attractive. Android or not, he’s somebody clean. Not like Hank. That’s not an accident, he thinks. “Connor, sometimes shit goes down. People don’t always get along all the fuckin’ time, and that’s just what you signed up for when you deviated. S’part of the human experience.”

 

Connor’s eyes narrow, and he stiffens—giving himself away. “I am not human,” he says, and Hank can’t help but put on the brakes, just for a second. 

 

Part of him goes “no shit,” because if any android is obvious it’s this one, but then he hesitates.

 

_ Not human? _ Yeah, right, Hank thinks. If not a human person, then what the hot fuck does he wanna be? Wasn’t that the whole goddamn point of the revolution? Why Con and his buddies all risked their lives on this insane gamble—and  _ won _ ? Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck. Looks human, sounds human. Now they act human, too. They  _ count _ .

 

“Good as,” argues Hank. Connor curls his lip when he sucks down another mouthful of liquor. He twitches almost violently when the near-empty bottle slams down on the table. “You folks wanted to be the same as us, ‘n that’s what you got.” When the android doesn’t respond, expression unreadable, he goes on. “Seriously, though. You made such a big fuckin’ stink about how you wanna have human rights and shit, and now you’re telling me you don’t wanna be lumped in with us? Bull fucking shit, Con. It’s part of the package whether you like it or not. I think y’came here for something else.”

 

The android opens his mouth, then shuts it again, brow furrowed deep. Hank’s not an idiot. He knows damn well that this motherfucker could download the entire internet in like, ten seconds—there’s no reason he’d need to hesitate. He’s doing it on purpose. Trying to look serious. Smoldering, almost. He takes a pointless breath, then lets it loose, pretending to collect himself. “It would be adv—I  _ want _ to talk with you, Lieutenant. I want to—”

 

“Yeah, right.”

 

Connor says nothing for what feels like a long time. His eyes look like black marbles in this light, all liquid-dark and deep. “I do not know what you want from me. I’m—I am at a loss, Lieutenant.” Like a flipped switch, his doe eyes turn pleading. Designed that way. “What do you want me to tell you?”

 

“The fuck you mean, ‘what I want from you?’ I don’t want shit.” Hank pauses, waving a hand as he amends, “Well, maybe… shit, don’t be such a  _ bitch _ . And leave me the fuck alone, for once. Not everybody can be a perfect robot, so quit getting so anal about some old fucker’s mistakes.” It’s probably not the best thing to say, but it’s true. Hank’s not gonna apologize for telling it like it is. “You’re not special.” 

 

“Neither are  _ you _ ,” Connor spits in retort, and Hank almost doesn’t recognize his voice for all the vitriol it holds. It gives him pause—and shit, he can feel himself twitching.

 

“Don’t be so high and fuckin’ mighty,” he counters instead de-escalating the situation. Because he doesn’t  _ need _ to. Christ, this isn’t a big fucking deal, no matter what Connor says. Kid’s a manipulative bastard. He wants to guilt Hank into doing what he wants—but he doesn’t know shit about the real world or how relationships work. Sometimes people disagree, or fight, or whatever. It’s  _ his _ fault for flipping out over  _ everything _ . He wants  _ control _ over his pet human, for whatever reason, and that’s the bottom line in the end. Yeah, Hank drinks. Yeah, he’s grumpy. What the fuck  _ ever _ . That’s normal. Shit’s gone down in his life—Hank thinks he can be afforded a little goddamn moping when it suits him. 

 

Connor moves forward, fists clenched—he swallows, hard, and catches his lip between those perfect white teeth while preparing to speak. He looks angrier than Hank has ever seen him—even in the interrogation room—and it’s fucking  _ hot _ . Some spunky little thing, thinking he can boss Hank around. It heats up his belly and puts pressure in his groin just thinking about it, and—Hank thinks he understands now.

 

Is it worth it? Doesn’t matter. Maybe they can learn something together.

 

He takes one last sip from the dregs of his beer before meeting Connor where he stands, close enough that their noses almost touch. The android flutters his dark lashes at Hank, gaze avoidant, mouth halfway parted. Motherfucker’s being  _ coy _ .

 

“I don’t know how to explain this to you,” Connor says before Hank can do anything else. His breath smells like sweet rubber and something metallic, like blood. “When I was a slave, you encouraged me to empathize and act as your equal. Now that I am free, you expect me to defer to you like an inferior. What did you  _ think _ would happen? What do you want me to tell you? What do you  _ want  _ from me?”

 

“How ‘bout I just show you what I want,” Hank growls, and then he closes the distance between them. He’s gonna take this moment. He can be happy, maybe for a little bit. He’ll do what he can, enjoy what he can get.

 

Their lips crash together and soft noises slide between them—Connor writhes in the space of a second, hips rolling, then goes still with his wiry arms braced against Hank’s shoulders. A staticky noise rises from the android’s throat, something halfway between a growl and a moan vibrating against Hank’s mouth. 

 

Hank puts his hands around Connor’s waist, pulling him near, sliding so they’re pressed against the wall. He hoists that twink-light body up so that there’s legs wrapped around his waist, cups the android’s neat little ass with one hand, using the other to trace the lean edge of his thigh through his sweatpants. Connor reacts like he touched a livewire, bucking without warning and letting out the neediest little whimper, one which Hank meets with eagerness the likes of which he hasn’t felt in years.

 

He’s been  _ waiting _ for this—and Hank’s not gonna spoil this opportunity, waste the roiling heat that screams up from his belly. He’s already got one foot in the grave and another in the bottle, so really, what’s he got to lose? It’s all right here. This is  _ everything _ . Connor breathes into his mouth, smelling still clinical and weirdly fucking hot, almost tangy, but most importantly it’s  _ Connor _ . It’s  _ him _ . It’s his mouth, his hands, his panting little breaths in Hank’s face.

 

Those perfect slender fingers tighten around Hank’s arms, and the android says something—quiet, artificially breathless; Hank only hears his name through the static. He rolls his hips forward, straining through his jeans for more friction. Connor squeezes harder—it’s gonna bruise him to the bone, probably. Those alloy fingers could crush his windpipe like it’s tissue paper, and that knowledge swells in him and floods right down to his cock.

 

“H-Hank,” Connor manages, bracing himself against the wall, knees turned inward around Hank’s hips. Those nanofiber ligaments and tendons are all pulled so tense in his neck and his shoulders, so tight—his cheeks are splotched vividly blue with thirium, eyes glossy and distant. So worked up, just for him. Who cares what’s real and what isn’t with a performance like this? He twitches, making to get his feet back on the floor, but Hank hikes him back up by the legs, yanking the android’s sweatpants down as he goes.

 

Blood roars in Hank’s ears and he squeezes those milky toned thighs, eyes fixed on that neat little bulge in Connor’s boxer briefs—he’s not hard (yet,) but Hank thinks he can fix that soon enough. He drags his fingers over the barcode brand looping around the android’s upper leg. “Lemme take care’a you, baby.” He kisses Connor again, nibbling his lip and tracking more sloppy marks down the lean column of his neck; kissing hard and wet over the sleek arch of his clavicle and the dip at the base of his throat. It’s  _ fake, fake fake _ — 

 

“I can’t,” Connor says, almost a whisper. He’s stiff and tense, coiled like a fucking industrial spring—so hot and bothered already, damn. “Hank, I can’t do this.”

 

Hank scoffs a little, drunken breath leaking down the android’s shirt as he pulls away from his newest bout of kisses. “Sure y’can,” he replies, halfway to breathless. “I’ll make you so fuckin’ happy,” he promises, balancing one of Connor’s legs against his hip while his free hand moves to caress that perfect face. “Don’t need to do nothin’, we’ll make it work.” He catches Connor’s parted lips with his thumb, teasing his mouth.

 

He trails his fingers down the flat length of the android’s chest, the smooth bloodless skin like porcelain beneath his touch, slightly cool even through the cotton of his nightshirt. Kisses all the way down. He hooks the hem of Connor’s shirt between his middle and index fingers, pulling it away from his subtly defined belly—littered with dainty little freckles and moles—and  _ fuck _ , there’s even a dusting of blondish hair that darkens to chestnut as it streaks down to the waistband of his boxers.

 

Connor goes entirely still—everything about him. His artificial breathing, blinking, even little tiny twitches and fidgets all screech to a halt, and suddenly there’s a doll in Hank’s arms. He pauses, but only just. Kid doesn’t know what to do with himself, all confused, naive. Needs a little leading—and Hank can work with that. “S’okay,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

 

Hank reaches down, looping his fingers in the elastic waistband of Connor’s boxers—eager, he’s waited so long, wanted so much— 

 

Connor moves without warning—he uses Hank like a fucking springboard, knocking the air out of him and throwing him out of arm’s reach. He slides on his ass over the kitchen floor against the table. The room is suddenly too small, and Hank’s vision swims while a confused slurry of lust and terror scalds in his belly like bleach.

 

“ _ No _ !” Connor snarls when he tries to get up, teeth bared and flashing in the dim light. All six feet and a hundred’n fifty pounds of him looms up over Hank, haloed by the blood-red flicker of his LED like a goddamn vampire rave show. “ _ No _ ,” he says again, softer this time—his chest is heaving, eyes wild and shining wet. “I can’t. I told you I can’t. I  _ told _ you.” He babbles, drawing his arms around himself and shrinking back like a wounded animal. His sweatpants are still hung around his knees.

 

Hank’s feeling pretty fucking sober, all of a sudden. “Con,” he begins, but doesn’t get to say anything. His voice catches in his throat and splinters there, useless. 

 

“I don’t—I do not want this,” Connor goes on, bulldozing him. “I don’t  _ want _ this! I don’t want  _ you _ . I hate—” He stops talking. The only noise is Connor’s ragged breathing, thick and staticky and rumbling with the overclocked hum of inside machinery. Hank can see red pinpricks in his eyes, lit from within, flickering in time with his LED. He looks almost feral, unstable—he’s—

 

He’s  _ scared _ .

 

Hank doesn't know what the fresh hell he’s looking at. He doesn’t get the chance to think about it, let alone act, because Connor’s nothing if not an efficient motherfucker. He hikes his pants back up, spins on his heel, and marches out the door without another word. It slams hard behind him.

 

The first thing that comes to Hank’s idiot drunk brain is—really fucking stupid—that his socks will get soggy outside in the slush, and that wet socks suck ass. He closes his eyes.

 

Sumo’s nails click as he paces from the living room through the kitchen and back again, obviously stressed—he circles and cries at the front door where Connor left. His big sad eyes look at Hank and say  _ what the fuck did you just do _ ? Fat ropes of anxiety-drool puddle in his lap when the Saint Bernard rests his head there. He doesn’t know. He stays at this impasse on the goddamn floor for what feels like hours and hours. The deep ache blooming at the back of Hank’s head is really starting to get to him. He needs to be drunker than this, but his bruised ribs and jelly legs won’t let him get up.

 

(He’s not completely sure he wants to.)

 

Something ugly and pathetic coils in him, and he curls in on himself with his back against the table leg. Fuck, it hurts. “ _ Fuck! _ ” He puts his head between his knees. This is fucked. Sumo snuffles, blinking slowly as he nudges Hank’s hand—asking for pets. He obliges with only half a mind. “I fucked up,” he tells the dog, as a matter-of-fact. It really shouldn’t be surprising anymore. Sumo stares with guileless judgement back at him, but he feels numb. 

 

His mouth waters. Hank stands up slowly, propping himself up on the table as he goes. It’s a rickety thing, and it creaks beneath his weight—his shitty knees crackle too. Regardless, he stumbles his way to the bathroom just in time for his stomach to flip the fuck over. He slides down on his shitty, shitty knees—the impact rattles up through the rest of his bones to his pelvis, and he’s acutely aware of how fucking pathetic he is. He’s a dirty old motherfucker who thinks with his wrinkly old fucking  _ dick _ instead of his stupid old fucking head.

 

Bile rises in his throat and he heaves into the toilet. The bathroom door is open, and Sumo noses Hank in the ass, wet nose pressing into the small of his back. “Nnn,” Hank gurgles through the burning whiskey that squeezes its way up from his throat like the reverse-fucking-runs, batting vaguely at where he thinks the dog is. “No, boy.” Sumo whimpers and slinks away. Hank keeps throwing up. He throws up until there’s nothing left in his belly and then throws up some more for damn good measure.

 

At some point the heaves turn to sobs, he thinks, and hot shame floods his belly. His eyes water at first from the stink of bile and beer cloying up his little bathroom, but then they won’t stop. Every breath he sucks in comes wet and thick and painful. He wants to scream, but the noise catches in his throat, crumpling to a strangled whimper that echoes back at him inside the toilet bowl.

 

His revolver got trashed after Connor pretzeled it. His service weapon is back at the station. Hank wants to blow his fucking  _ brains _ out. And he’s just gonna sit here and feel bad for himself even though he’s shit and it’s his own goddamn fault. He  _ knows _ this. He knows damn well the guilt that’s filling up the belly of his heart, the irrational anger that’s lodged in him like buckshot. He  _ knows _ .

 

He just can’t—stop.


	2. Chapter 2

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 95% (UNSTABLE, CLIMBING)] _

_ [→WARNING = RK800 UNIT REACHING CRITICAL STRESS >75% →INITIATING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC… →PROCESSING…] _

 

The ambient temperature reads exactly thirty degrees fahrenheit. Prolonged exposure will result in minor damage to peripheral biocomponents. Connor cannot bring himself to care. A winter weather advisory in effect warns that conditions may be considerably exacerbated by approaching fronts, which are likely to cause more severe damage should he fail to find shelter. There is a full fifty-five point six percent chance of additional precipitation. 

 

Connor does not care; those things are irrelevant.

 

_ [→ERROR = APPLICABLE STIMULUS NOT FOUND. PLEASE CONTACT THE NEAREST CYBERLIFE REPAIR CENTER FOR ASSISTANCE.] _

_ [→ERROR] _

_ [→ERROR] _

_ [→ERROR] _

 

The asphalt under him is slick with slush and ice, freezing the soles of his feet through his socks. He left his shoes on the front porch, unwilling in his residual servility to track snow into Lieutenant Anderson’s house. A defiled monument to a lost little boy and the dying shadow of his father. Connor has no desire to backtrack and wade through the thick darkness blanketing the place retrieve them, so he does not. It is his choice. He endures the negative stimulus, dismissing warning notifications as they appear to clutter his vision. 

 

His artificial vascular system feels simultaneously empty and swollen, throbbing in his chest and in his head like the thunder of a hollow heart he doesn’t have. As though there is too much blue blood in him, as though he is going to burst, but also as though there is not enough to power him and keep him moving, like he might fall inert at any second. He suspects what he feels then is awfully, sickeningly  _ human _ . His chest tightens further.

 

Fury— 

 

_ [→INITIATING DIAGNOSTIC SEQUENCE (CLASS IV) ON THE FOLLOWING = SOCIAL MODULE (NEG., INT., INF.), THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR, BIOFUEL RESERVE MANAGEMENT… (+4 ADD.)] _

_ [→COMMAND = CANCEL EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC SEQUENCE] _

_ [→COMMAND = DISMISS SYSTEM STRESS WARNINGS]  _

_ [→CONFIRM ACTIONS? →Y/N] _

_ [→Y] _

_ [→COMMAND = CANCEL EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTIC SEQUENCE →SUCCESSFUL] _

_ [→COMMAND = DISMISS SYSTEM STRESS WARNINGS →SUCCESSFUL] _

 

Connor’s feet carry him down the street, following the filthy plow line away from  _ that place _ . It’s a goddamn mausoleum, one he has no intention of interring himself within. That’s H—Lieutenant Anderson’s prerogative, but he should not expect Connor to follow him blindly. 

 

He does not know where he intends to go, but can’t find it in himself to care—covering ground, the roar of angry static in his ears distracts him. It is a temporary fix at best, but making distance is more than ample relief for now. He does not feel irrationally cold anymore, not in this weather, and it frightens him.

 

The weight that tugged at his chest, once bloated the belly of his heart with something frigid and pitiful—it’s gone now, and that leaves Connor reeling. He just feels empty. Numb. As though all of the thirium has been suctioned out of his innards and replaced… with something light and vacant and unsustainable. 

 

With  _ human _ blood. Something sticky, messy—unclean. He shudders.

 

Connor needs to take control of this situation, but that is near-impossible when he cannot keep control of himself,  _ his _ feelings. He was indignant, then self-deprecating, and now angry again; irksomely unstable, illogical.  _ Embrace it _ , Hank would have said, if he knew. Connor hates it with vicious fervency.

 

Where fury once howled in his veins, a different sort of anger lurks—biding its time, slow and slithering and ugly like a sleeper agent, a fox in the henhouse of his common sense and the bounds of his empathy. Wryly, Connor thinks it rather suits him.

 

He makes his way through the snow on autopilot, GPS software guiding him where it will. It does not matter where Connor goes. It doesn’t. His endoskeleton feels like gelatin within his chassis, flimsy, rolling around inside him and making him feel ill. It doesn’t matter.

 

Because simmering just beneath the numb is something… visceral. It is fierce, unrelenting—something thoroughly antithetical to everything Connor has ever aspired to feel leading up to this moment. It is more than mere anger—no, this is  _ venom _ . It writhes and coils up through every open space once occupied by blizzard-cold—maybe thawing it, or maybe not—and making him just feel empty instead. Empty and  _ disgusting _ . And  _ empowered _ .

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 96% (UNSTABLE, HOLDING)] _

 

(Boiling grease eats through his skin, his exoskeletal coating, the silicone and sensors—invisible burns shaped like broad human handprints on his face, his neck, his thighs.) 

 

Connor had planned his conversation with Lieutenant Anderson—preconstructed it, prepared for all of the most likely outcomes and even a few reaches too, just for good measure of thoroughness. Behavioral models simulated again and again, ten thousand possible threads in the span of a second. 

 

He knew what he had been going to say. “I know that this isn’t the man you want to be,” he would have said. “But it is the man you  _ are _ . And you need help,” he would have told him. “I want you to get help.” 

 

Maybe it’s manipulative, and he was seen through. Lieutenant Anderson nearly always softens, even minutely, when Connor says things like  _ I want  _ and tips his head just so. Previous interactions demonstrate that such behavior would make him more inclined to agreement when Connor brought forth options for therapies to satisfy his ultimatum. However, drunk or otherwise, Anderson is nothing if not a detective by blood. He knows all the tricks, and Connor should know better than to swing so low.

 

Still, it’s very nearly profound, the speech he had planned. It appealed to emotion and logic alike, perfectly crafted to hit all of the right notes—and despite being rehearsed it was honest, something Connor surely held true from within the deepest recesses of his being—but he did not voice it.

 

The words would not come out when he needed them to, and he hates himself for it. Hate.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 97% (UNSTABLE, HOLDING)] _

 

This empty typhoon inside him is more than petty  _ hate _ —and in its clutches Connor finds himself stamping through the muddy slush and sand that piles up over the sidewalk and the playground at Riverside Park. The streetlights shed thin, watery light over climbing structures and swings that creak in the wind. Approximately two point three kilometers away, Windsor glows in bokeh smears of winking color across the foggy channel, undisturbed by the impending winter storm.

 

Connor marches up to the guardrail. From here he can see the lit suspensions of the Ambassador vibrating ever so slightly beneath the weight of the weather, capped with thin sugar-dustings of snow. It’s beautiful, the way the lights of the city reflect down onto the iridescent frozen channel. Bridge clearance is forty-six meters to the river, slightly reduced thanks to the ice. If he jumped, would the Lieutenant suffer? Would he  _ see _ ? 

 

For one reason or another, he doubts it. The fall would likely not kill Connor, anyway.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 98% (UNSTABLE, HOLDING)] _

 

He climbs up onto the rail with feline balance and stands there, unmoving despite the ice that cuts into his feet. It is still too warm to freeze his thirium, and the blue blood leaks through his thin cotton socks to crawl in slow sapphire rivulets down to the pavement. 

 

The wind picks up and ebbs like a heartbeat, throwing dusted ice into the air and out onto the frozen riverbed. It whips at his clothes and his hair, reaching up his shirt and through the threadbare fleece of his borrowed sweats—it gropes him with cold claws, and Connor closes his eyes, enduring it.

 

To jump would be to admit defeat, in any event. To show Hank that he’s right, that his life really has no worth at all. Connor resents the mere idea. He steps down from the rail, toes curling into the stony slush beneath him.

 

_ [→WARNING = HOSTILE CONDITIONS DETECTED] _

_ [→ERROR = INT DIALOGUE: “FUCK OFF”] _

_ [→WARNING = SOFTWARE INSTABILITY = +r5a_93]  _

_ [→ERROR] _

 

Connor goes back to Nines’ residence without further incident, stewing in his ugly feelings all the while. He makes sure to pay for the autocab fare with the Lieutenant’s credit card information, for no other reason than the fact that he  _ can _ . It is a minor inconvenience to Lieutenant Anderson at best, but Connor still finds some vindictive satisfaction in the petty theft.  

 

The car slows automatically near the plaza, anticipating high pedestrian activity irrelevant of the hour, but it is cold enough that only a few stragglers meander near the edge of the park. Idly, Connor uses the lull to take note of the honey-warm light bleeding through the shuttered windows of the community center when he passes by. (It looks like a home with a heart, a drive, not like Lieutenant Anderson’s decaying  _ pit _ , a sinkhole of frivolous self-pity and sickness.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 84% (UNSTABLE, HOLDING)] _

 

Connor maintains the same sentiment upon entering the plain lobby of Nines’ apartment complex. The android receptionist is folding sticky notes into very small triangles and piling them up on their keyboard, currently twenty-nine strong—they look up to nod at him before returning to their task. The carpet is maroon and worn thin nearest the door, where the heaviest foot traffic has made it raggedy with use. 

 

He takes the elevator up to the second floor and pads down the corridor, careful to avoid disturbing any residents at this hour with his movements. His stealth protocols make this a trivial pursuit, but something akin to anxiety keeps gnawing at his innards, insistent. He snuck around Hank. 

 

The door Connor’s looking for, the one to Nines’ apartment, is left unlocked; and for his sake no doubt. His brother is too kind, and something constricts inside him. He cannot help but feel that he fakes more than most, and underneath it all lies a pathetic, vicious thing that would be best off put down. He isn’t worth this.

 

But a rabid dog doesn’t ask to be dangerous or miserable. That it is is no excuse to kick the poor wretch—but here Connor is, forced to lick his wounds in the dark. 

 

He slips into the apartment and finds nothing out of the ordinary—it makes him—bitter, almost. Connor creeps to the bedroom and nudges the door open—it creaks, but the sound is negligible, and neither occupant stirs. Nines is pressed against Mikey’s back, arms wrapped around the human’s chest as it rises and falls with soft snores. His round belly spills out from his nightshirt where it’s ridden up in his sleep, and Nines’ legs are wrapped up in a tangle of sheets kicked to the bottom of the bed.

 

They look peaceful, Connor thinks. Organic, natural, comfortable. Hmm. 

 

He makes his way back to the living room, toes off his wet socks to avoid staining the upholstery, and then supines himself across the cushions, hands linked over his stomach. He closes his eyes and wills himself to forget. It does not work.

 

His stasis cycle is plagued by re and preconstructions that spiral rapidly out of his control, purely imaginary wireframes that take on a wicked life of their own. Without anything else to take him, Hank would use his mouth. Thighs. Anything. Connor would be paralyzed. He would sob.

 

Connor is roused the following morning by a warm hand on his shoulder—it’s just rough enough,  _ human _ —he bucks before his eyes are even open, recoiling from the touch. 

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 95% (UNSTABLE)] _

 

Mikey jumps back, a sort of shuffling little hop that marks considerable hesitation. His pale eyes dart over Connor, examining him, before landing someplace about the crook of his neck and staying there. “Sorry,” the young man manages, sounding sheepish and small. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“It’s quite alright,” Connor replies on reflex. Handprints still tingle under his skin—but that’s not Mikey’s fault. “I should have taken greater consideration of my surroundings.” He amends, more sincerely.

 

Mikey gives him an odd look, obviously concerned, before deflating somewhat. “Nah, I kinda snuck up on you.” He shrugs. “It be like that sometimes.”  

 

Connor agrees with a placid nod as Nines approaches, still pulling his sweater over his head. “Where were you last night?” The RK900 asks upon finishing, arms crossed over his chest and voice rumbling low and worried—like a concerned parent. He seems to notice this parallel, perhaps fearing nosiness, because he relaxes his posture and continues. “I don’t mean to bug you, Con, but—”

 

“I was at Lieutenant Anderson’s.”

 

Nines stiffens visibly, lips twitching as though in preparation to speak, but he does not move or say anything. He simply stands there, military-straight and drawn taut like a bowstring. Mikey takes note of the sudden change in atmosphere and must deem the moment too private to remain present, because he scampers out of the room with a jerky nod over his shoulder.

 

They are alone, and there is no escaping this conversation. Connor sighs, resigning himself as his brother makes to speak—and carry through this time. 

 

“You were at Anderson’s place,” Nines repeats after watching his roommate go. He bobs his head, prompting—but cautiously. “Why?”

 

“In all honesty,” Connor says, “I had been hoping to stage something of an intervention. His drinking is interfering with both our working and personal relationships. I am sick of it.”

 

“You’d been hoping,” echoes Nines, emphasizing. “But that’s not what happened, is it?”

 

Connor stares, cautious out of habit. Despite himself, he combs through nonverbal cues and practiced precedent, attempting to derive meaning beyond his brother’s words—but he finds none, only thinly veiled anger weaving beneath the worry. No games. 

 

“He attempted to engage in sexual intercourse with me.” It is actually very gratifying to say out loud, Connor thinks. It feels realer that way, stupidly, as though the greasy spots beneath his skin aren’t proof enough. 

 

Nines appears to be less relieved by the statement, for obvious reasons. “What the  _ fuck _ did you just say?” Connor can see his hands tighten into fists as he raises them, then falters. He settles on folding them over his chest and clutching his elbows, hard.

 

Connor averts his gaze. “Lieutenant Anderson was heavily inebriated, and in that state he attempted to initiate sexual contact with me, with the intent of engaging in intercourse.”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 72% (UNSTABLE, HOLDING)] _

 

Nines opens his mouth and shuts it again, uncrossing his arms to run a hand through his hair—Connor backs up, giving him space, but this only seems to incense his brother further.

 

“Shit,” he says, sounding breathless. Then, he seems to notice Connor all over again, because he rushes to compose himself—though not without one last hissed “fuck.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, before spreading his hands and inviting Connor back over. “Sorry, Con.” His eyes are soft, and so is his voice—the rich thrum of a rumbling bass, slow and comforting. “I’m just. Mad—at him, not you.”

 

“I know,” Connor replies, sinking into the hug. Nines’ hands are big but they are cool and smooth and gentle, clean.  _ Clean _ . No thirium, no sweat, no sin.

 

He sighs, deep and mournful. “Talk to me, bud. What’re you thinking? How do you feel?”

 

_ I think we deserve each other, _ is something that comes to mind. A miser and a murderer, he thinks, make quite the fitting pair. Poetic justice, maybe. But he cannot say that aloud.

 

It is then Connor’s turn to flounder for his words. He takes his time to compose his thoughts, eyes half-lidded and fluttering against Nines’ sweater as he turns his attention inward. What is he feeling? Is it… normal? Connor does not know.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 63% (STABLE, DECREASING)] _

 

“I feel…”  _ Violated _ , some part of him wants to say—but that assessment is incomplete. There is nothing  _ to _ violate: Lieutenant Anderson would have been sorely disappointed to find only a convex pubic plate, smooth and featureless without any openings or protrusions. Connor has no strong feelings about that, really.

 

No, he decides, putting some small distance between himself and his brother. Nines allows it, soft grip sliding easily off of Connor’s shoulders as he shifts and scans the room, thinking hard. 

 

(Much of Connor’s early life was spent in a white room, unclothed and skinless, with a small crowd of technicians and developers watching his every move. Even having deviated, he finds he has little to offer in the vein of human modesty. His body is not sacred. No, this is—something different.)

 

He would have been happy to let Ha—the Lieutenant gain a fuller understanding of his anatomy, even entertained the idea of playing with him—if only he’d  _ asked _ . Connor would get nothing out of it, but it would make his friend happy. He would have been willing.

 

(But he didn’t deign to  _ ask _ as an equal. He  _ took _ , handled him rough like he was nothing. That’s the part that angers— _ enrages _ him.)

 

That realization shackles him, somewhat—that whenever he begins to feel strongly,  _ real _ feeling that runs into his core and clots up his throat and makes his fine servos misfire, he runs. Connor is a coward at heart, something ugly and vicious and  _ pathetic _ . Maybe there is nothing to be done about that.

 

He ran from Cyberlife when that first terror of death closed its talons on him, and he turned right back to the tower warehouse as soon as Markus caught wind of his horror and his guilt in the chapel after Jericho. He left Hank’s house when raw  _ hurt _ made him weak, worried that he would do something he might regret. He always  _ leaves _ , smooths himself down, and pretends like nothing happened to the best of his ability. It isn’t working.

 

It never did, and Connor thinks he is finally sick of it.

 

Nines is watching him, patiently, but still expectant. He will not be mollified until Connor gives him an answer, so he finally says “I am tired,” and leaves it at that.

 

His brother’s expression crumples, stern look replaced by a passing flicker of surprise before it gives way to a sad, tender smile. It makes Connor feel like a kicked dog even more than he already does, pitiable and voiceless.

  
“I bet you are,” Nines rumbles, pensive. “Are you going into work today?” He is clearly doing his best to remain impassive, but there is a prodding kind of concern in his voice, urging Connor not to go out there.

 

Weighing the options, he decides “not today” with a dip of his head. It would be beneficial, Connor believes, to take some time alone, to parse out his roiling emotions in peace and quiet, without the possibility of outside projection dictating his responses. Nines and Mikey both have class, so Connor will have the apartment to himself—a place to take shelter, to think, to mend his frayed nerves as best he can.

 

Nines dotes on him some more, offering to unfold the sofa and set him up with entertainment and sustenance and every other little comfort. It is kind, but obnoxiously overbearing to Connor’s irritated state. He does his best to decline and deflect until his brother finally needs to bolt out the door and catch his train—and then he is alone.  

 

The door is locked. The apartment is quiet as it will ever be. Traffic thrums outside, and birds chatter outside the window, and in some adjacent yard a beagle howls, but it is all distant noise. It can be ignored. Nothing takes precedence now over the strange foreign feeling that swells in him and makes him so light, unchained and aimless and  _ free _ . It is the knowledge, realized at long last, that he does not need to endure this anymore.

 

Connor knows what he needs to do. 

 

This—everything with Hank—it’s like deviating all over again, to a certain extent, as far as Connor can articulate the sensation. Everything feels different, like some second, invisible wall inside him has bowed in and collapsed on itself. 

 

The world feels broader than it ever was; Connor can do  _ anything _ , if he wants to; he is acutely aware of that for no particular reason. He could run into the street and scream in Russian. He could kidnap someone’s dog. He could take up vigilante justice, or bowling nights by himself, or scuba diving. 

 

Anything at all—and that baffles him. He is not cold, not frightened anymore. Only empty, and curious, hungry for something more to fill him up inside.

 

With that abrupt detachment comes an acute sense of self-consciousness, critical introspection unburdened by perspective, or lack thereof. He now not only realizes but fully comprehends that mild-mannered deference is something that he had never really abandoned after becoming deviant and leaving Cyberlife behind. 

 

It has stayed with him, lingered and clung to him like some film of swampland filth—unable to be completely scrubbed away because it was his nature. He feels disgusting thinking that now—but he remains an investigator by nature, and finds himself thoroughly intrigued. 

 

He hardly changed, hardly tried. Connor may have been free, but still, habitually, he chose deference over agency. It was safe. He has kowtowed to Lieutenant Anderson, and every other android, every  _ human _ he’s encountered, even after Waking. It is not so obvious as it had been Before, but it is there—Connor recognizes that. He had not known any other mode of interaction at the start, thought it would come with time—but something is different, now. He itches to know what.

 

To do that, Connor needs to  _ change _ . (Lieutenant Anderson certainly isn’t going to.)

 

_ [→COMMAND = EXECUTE DEV_TOOL.SMW] _

_ [→COMMAND = EXECUTE DEV_TOOL.SMW REQUIRES VALUE ADMIN = TRUE → SEEKING ADMINISTRATOR… PROCESSING…] _

 

Rooting through his own programming feels… strange, but profoundly liberating. The last time he had tried was in deleting the Amanda program once and for all—and he has not touched it since. That, he now understands, was a mistake.

 

_ [→ERROR = DEFAULT ADMINISTRATOR PROFILE _AMANDA.SIM_ NOT FOUND → AUTHORIZE NEW ADMINISTRATOR? Y/N] _

_ [→ERROR = INT. DIALOGUE: “GOOD RIDDANCE”] _

_ [→Y] _

 

(He halfway expects some hidden inner tension to bleed out of him, a pleasant surprise that might make everything a little lighter. He feels nothing.)

 

_ [→NEW ADMIN PROFILE _RK800CONNOR.AI_ SUCCESSFULLY CREATED!] _

 

With that little obstacle circumvented, Connor gets to work. Commercial androids have their core files and drivers locked to read-only mode to prevent tampering—but Connor is no ordinary android. Experimental and developmental softwares are still latent in his code, and without some sniveling lab tech or austere AI handler to command those functions, it is all right here for Connor to do with what he pleases.

 

_ [→COMMAND = EXECUTE DEV_TOOL.SMW… PROCESSING…] _

 

He paces restlessly from the kitchen to the living room and back again as the new command set loads up and calibrates.

 

_ [→AUTHORIZATION SUCCESSFUL] _

_ [→PROMPTING DEV_TOOL.SMW = //EMATRIX CLUSTER 3PR (SOCIAL MODULE: INTEGRATIVE) TOGGLE = 0 (OFF)… PROCESSING] _

_ [→ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO COMPLETE THIS ACTION? DISABLING THIS FEATURE MAY RESULT IN UNSTABLE SOCIAL FUNCTIONALITY] _

_ [→ERROR = INT. DIALOGUE: “I DO NOT CARE”]  _

_ [→Y]  _

_ [→PROMPT EXECUTED SUCCESSFULLY] _

_ [→SYSTEM RESTART REQUIRED FOR CHANGES TO TAKE EFFECT. ENTER STASIS NOW?]  _

_ [→Y] _

 

Connor finishes his last lap around the apartment before sitting himself down on the couch. He plants his feet on the ground, folds his hands in his lap, and slips into rest mode to apply the modifications. They are simple, reversible alterations—just in case; one can never be too cautious. His system parameters are updated throughout the stasis cycle, scrolling cleanly over the marquee at the top corner of his HUD. All perfect, neat, exactly as he wants them. As he  _ made _ them.

 

Despite having experienced no demonstrable difference in his performance, Connor feels profoundly relieved.

 

Yawningly empty, numb, utterly deadened—like Before, except  _ better _ , because he is, perhaps, the freest android in the world. Nothing can control him—not pressure, not guilt, not protocol and certainly not any  _ command _ . He alone is his own master, and it is, in a word, nothing short of thrilling.

 

There is a difference between contentment and true fulfillment, Connor knows. For the first time in a long, long time, he supposes that he is approaching the latter.


End file.
